


Portrait Of The Artist

by Creej



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12017031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creej/pseuds/Creej
Summary: AU in which Neal is a successful - and elusive -  artist and Peter a rich businessman... and a sex god?





	Portrait Of The Artist

Peter Burke. Most wanted him, few ever had him and those who did swore they were ruined for anybody else, that he was a god in bed. It didn't hurt that he was good looking - brown hair, broad shoulders, long legs, trim waist and brown eyes that seemed to just _know_ what you wanted - and he was rich. And smart.

Neal Caffrey was one who wanted him but he wasn't about to make a fool of himself as others had done. He was no slouch in the looks department himself - his blue eyes, dark hair, lithe but muscular frame garnered its share of doubletakes and his lovers had no complaints about his prowess between the sheets.

At the moment, Neal's thoughts were occupied not by Peter Burke but by the young boy standing in front of him trying not to squirm or giggle as his brush glided over his face as he was slowly transformed into a tiger. Behind him and to the sides were others either waiting their turn or just observing.

"And there...you go," Neal said, putting a final touch on the boy's face. He held up a small mirror so the boy could see himself, his smile echoing the boy's wide grin as he saw himself.

"How much?" the boy's father asked.

"I take all donations, large or small," Neal said and thanked him as a five was dropped into his case.

Neal spent the rest of the day drawing sketches for those who asked, transforming young children into their favorite animal or superhero and adorning a cheek with flowers, rainbows or fantasy animal - usually young women in their mid to late teens. More than one had indicated an interest in more than his talent with pencil, charcoal and paint. He turned them down, gently but firmly and sent them on their way. He checked the time and decided on one more before he packed up his depleted supplies and called it a day. His eyes were caught by a young girl of about fourteen. She was special needs - Down Syndrome - her eyes a liquid brown, matching hair shoulder length and curling up slightly at the ends, her rounded face smooth. "And what would you like, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

"A butterfly," she said.

"A very special butterfly, I think," Neal said, taking her hand to draw her closer. He reached into his case for his finest brush and said, "Hold real still for me, okay?"

His focus narrowed to brush against skin as he covered half her face from forehead to chin, the butterfly's wings a riot of color not seen in Nature. With a last swirl of his brush, he sat back and held the mirror so she could see.

"Pretty," she said, wide eyed. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Neal said. A woman he assumed was her mother approached, digging through her purse. "This one's on me," he said. "But thank you." The woman looked at him for a moment, a little uncertainly but her expression cleared when he gave her a nod. The crowd that had gathered while he worked started to disperse as he packed up, stuffing the bills he'd received into his wallet. HIs stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. On his way home, he stopped at a street cart and got a hot dog, reflecting on his afternoon. The money he'd picked up was a pittance compared to what just one of his original paintings would bring in but the street art was more satisfying to his artist's soul.

He sighed, thinking about the gallery opening in a few weeks - he seriously considered skipping it since no one would know if he showed up or not. Call it insecurity or eccentricity but he preferred knowing his art stood on its own merit rather than because someone wanted a picture painted by a pretty artist. Neal Caffrey's name was well known in the art world but his face wasn't. Occasionally, he wished he was still in Paris, sitting in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower doing sketches for the tourists. But Kate had encouraged him to dream bigger, cajoling him into contacting the smaller galleries and she essentially pestered them into showing his work. It had paid off when his first showing had been a major success, his work selling for more than either had dared hope. It had been her idea for him to blend into the crowd, saying it lent an air of mystery and he'd also be able to get public opinion first hand. It had worked that first time so he'd continued during his time in France and when he'd returned to New York after Kate's death.

He felt tears sting his eyes as he slotted his key into the lock. After two years it still hurt, knowing her life had been ended by some petty crook, a mugger looking for some easy cash and who'd decided that Kate was an easy target. She hadn't been - she'd fought back, stopping only when the knife entered her chest. He'd been at home, working on another piece for his next showing when he got the call from the hospital. He'd gotten there just in time to say goodbye - the knife had nicked a major artery and she'd lost too much blood by the time she'd been transported.

He closed the door behind him, setting his case aside. Going to the kitchen, he unracked a bottle of wine and poured a glass before heading to the living room. He stood, sipping his wine as he gazed out at the view of Central Park in the setting sun, the navigation beacon on the Liberty Tower spire flashing steadily in the distance. His thoughts drifted to the paintings he'd be showing - a view of Paris from near the top of the Eiffel Tower, inspired by one of Kate's musings: if the tower was alive instead of tons of inanimate iron, what would it see? There was also a view of London's famed Winchester Cathedral, painted when they'd spent a couple weeks in England along with Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square. Another from Paris was the statue on the banks of the Seine that was the smaller twin of Lady Liberty, looking west as if searching for her larger sister. Closer to his current home was one of the Arch in St. Louis at three quarter profile. The last was of the Grand Canyon - pedestrian perhaps but he'd painted it from the bottom, from the small Native American village located there. He'd even caught the mail carrier coming down with the burros that substituted for a truck. The rest of the showing consisted of sketches he'd done over that last year - some had been committed to canvas, others were just studies.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard giggling out in the hallway, cut off when a door closed. Despite having lived in the apartment for almost six months, he still hadn't met his neighbor down the hall - hadn't seen him, hadn't heard his voice, didn't know his name. From what little he could gather, the man was well off, considering his address, single since most days all he heard was the heavier tread of a man and occasionally the lighter one of a woman. Once he'd gotten curious and looked through the peephole in his door to see a rather striking blonde headed to the elevator looking so fucked out he was surprised she could walk. From there Neal's thoughts went to Peter Burke and his alleged sexual prowess. He remembered the first time he'd seen the other man. It was at his last showing and the man had commanded attention as soon as he'd arrived. Intrigued, he'd asked one of the other attendees who he was. The woman had barely looked at Neal as she filled him in, her eyes locked on Peter Burke as he chatted with other attendees and perused the art on display. Eventually he'd joined Neal and his companion and Neal understood why the woman had gushed over him - the man had a presence about him, a magnetism that was hard to resist. But somehow, Neal had and that seemed to surprise Peter. Not that Neal _didn't_ wonder how Peter would look, spread out naked on his bed, writhing as Neal explored his body or how it would feel to have Peter's cock buried balls deep inside him.

But Neal had seen the quick flicker of irritation that crossed Peter's face as the woman - and most of the other attendees - almost constantly touched him - a light touch to the arm, the hand or the shoulder. But what kept Peter Burke in the back of his mind was the fact that he was the first person who'd captured his attention since Kate. She'd known of his...flexibility and hadn't freaked out like his other girlfriends, hadn't been afraid he'd leave her for another woman...or man. He'd promised her fidelity when they'd gotten married and had kept that promise until he'd gotten the call from the hospital. In the two years since, he'd lost interest until meeting Peter Burke. Not that he'd been celibate but he had no interest in a long term relationship.

Draining his glass, he returned to the kitchen and rooted around in the fridge for some leftover Thai to have for supper, making a mental note to do some shopping the next day.

 

Peter lay back against the pillows, getting his breathing under control. The woman beside him struggled to do the same, a somewhat loopy smile on her face. "Oh man," she breathed. "They were right." A frown touched her face when Peter sat up and reached for a robe then seemed to realize that was her cue to get dressed. Peter gave her a somewhat distracted kiss at the door and shut it firmly behind her before pouring himself a drink, feeling vaguely unsatisfied. It wasn't that the woman - Candy, Sandy, Sara, whatever - wasn't a good bed partner, it was just that she wasn't quite what he was looking for. He sighed. Maybe he'd bring a man back the next time. He wouldn't have to be quite so careful and he enjoyed the tightness he experienced with a man.

He settled at the table, going through the mail he hadn't looked at that morning. Not much of interest - a few investment opportunities, an inquiry about his season tickets to the theater...and a showing of Neal Caffrey's latest works. The rest he discarded as junk and opened the brochure for the gallery. As with the last one he'd gone to, there was no indication of how many pieces there were, what subjects...and no picture of the artist. There was only information of where and when along with a brief history of the artist. He was already familiar with Caffrey's work, having a few of his pieces hanging on his walls, pieces he'd picked up in France a few years ago. He found that Caffrey's cityscapes were unique in that he rarely included well known landmarks as the focal point and if he did, they were shown from an unusual angle. He remembered seeing one of the Eiffel Tower from almost directly underneath, the ironwork exquisitely detailed. He'd passed on that one for a view of the Millenium Wheel from almost edge on. His favorite was of a playground where half a dozen kids played, flying high on the swings, spinning on the merry-go-round and wrestling in the grass. It had reminded him of his own childhood in upstate New York, before his grandfather - and guardian - had bequeathed him the wealth he now enjoyed. 

He set the brochure aside, making a note to attend the opening and wondered if Caffrey would be there as well. He'd heard the rumors - some said he was a recluse and hadn't set foot off his estate in years (where that estate was was never mentioned), others said Neal Caffrey wasn't a single person but a collective of artists, still others said he _did_ go to his openings but, since no one had ever seen him, it was unknown whether he did or not and some said Neal Caffrey was actually a woman by the name of Nancy Carlisle. Various gallery owners had been asked about the elusive artist but had reported that they'd been sworn to secrecy and, since Caffrey was one of the more influential artists currently working, they didn't dare divulge anything about him lest their reputation suffer. Peter thought that was hyperbole - he was almost convinced that they liked the mystery associated with Caffrey; people would flock to the gallery, hoping they'd discover the artist was in attendance. But how would they know unless he announced himself? Peter didn't see that happening - the man seemed to know that the mystery added to his reputation and he used it to his advantage. Peter had tried Googling him but all he'd gotten was what the brochure had said - born in St. Louis to a middle class family, moved to New York at twenty then to Europe at twenty three. The trail stopped cold there. Peter had stopped digging, respecting the other man's privacy despite his curiosity, since at times he felt he lived in a fishbowl. Almost every time he went out he was followed by an entourage of people, none of whom he knew and would probably never see again, looking to see where he went, what he ate, what he bought. He used the public's intense interest to help struggling businesses - shops, restaurants, even some artists - since the public seemed to think if he liked it they would as well. One street artist had gotten a commission to do a mural for a well respected business just on the strength of having Peter purchase one of his sketches, a hole in the wall restaurant in Greenwich saw such a large increase in business that they had to start taking reservations and a street cart vendor had been able to go into business for himself after Peter was seen buying from him almost every day for two weeks, purchasing little trinkets to give to his employees' children and grandchildren. He was aware of their gratitude but all he'd ever asked of them was to treat him as they would any other customer. Occasionally a street artist he'd helped would do a sketch for him for free, the restaurants would comp a meal on occasion and shop owners would gift him something if he showed an interest and if he insisted on paying, they accepted with good grace. But it was rare that he went anywhere unnoticed - unlike Neal Caffrey, his face was well known - but there were times he managed it.

His attention was caught by the sound of a door opening then closing and he realized his neighbor from down the hall had returned. The apartment had been empty until six months ago but he'd never met the occupant(s), had never seen them either. He had no idea if it was just one person, a couple or a family. He'd heard no children so he discounted a family but from the faint whiff of turpentine and oil paints he knew an artist lived there. Whether an actual artist or someone who just dabbled, pretending to be one, he had yet to determine.

He put his unknown neighbor out of mind and focused instead on the quarterly earnings report of his company. His gut told him something was off with the numbers. He had an accountant but sometimes he liked to go over them himself then confer with the other man to see if they jibed. That was first on his list for the morning.

It was nearing dinnertime when he closed the books, having discovered that small amounts had been diverted from his corporate account. The amount wasn't much compared to the earnings but it was still theft and he decided to see if he could handle it in-house. If not, he'd hand it over to the FBI's New York white collar division. He'd met the ASAC - Reese Hughes - at some black tie event in DC and had struck up a friendship with the veteran agent over their dislike of politics - the Bureau's, local or national. Hughes had almost lost a very promising young agent due to harassment about her sexual orientation even though she knew she couldn't be dismissed due to the Frank Buttino case in the 90's but she'd been on the verge of resigning until Hughes had brought her into his division. Peter had met the young agent, Diana Berrigan, on a few occasions and had gotten the sense that even without Hughes' tacit protection, she was someone you only messed with once. He liked her.

He fixed himself a light supper, eating in the living room, looking out over Central Park. As he ate, his mind went back to the last showing of Caffrey's work and he remembered the dark haired man who'd been there - the only one who hadn't fawned all over him. He'd been surprised since, although it irritated him, he expected the attention. He'd become intrigued by the younger man as they discussed a range of topics from art to world finance. He'd found the man interesting, charming, intelligent...and drop dead gorgeous. Briefly he'd wondered what he'd look like spread out on his bed, what he'd feel like, what he'd taste like, what he'd look like as he came. He'd shoved those thoughts aside and continued to make the rounds. Now he regretted not getting the man's name - he hadn't offered it and Peter hadn't thought to ask - and chances were he'd never see the man again.

 

Neal struggled a little with his grocery bags as he hit the button for his floor, nearly dropping the canned goods as he did. He knew he could have had them delivered but he enjoyed picking through the produce and browsing the aisles himself so he didn't mind the occasional hassle.

As he put things away, he was making plans to return to the park to do more sketching and face paintings. He still had a while before the showing so - since he didn't have to any publicity - his time was his own to either start work on another piece or go to the park like he planned. He had an idea for another painting - a small portrait of the special needs girl, Cassidy - but he wasn't sure if it would be for display or sale. That was one reason he liked the park, especially in the summer and fall - the people, the scenery, the _life_ never failed to inspire him. He'd felt the same thing in Paris but New York had a _zing_ to it that no other city could quite match.

An hour later, he was ensconced on the same bench as before, restocked case open beside him and a simple sign proclaiming sketches and face painting for donations. Within minutes he was transforming a little boy into a lion.

 

Peter slowed as he saw the crowd of people gathered around one of the benches, his curiosity aroused. At first, he thought it was a street performer or perhaps someone running Find The Lady but as he neared, he saw the flash of a paintbrush as it slid across the face of a little boy.

He stood at the edge of the crowd and watched as the boy's face was replaced by that of a lion. He could see it in the boys tawny brown skin, broad nose and curly golden hair. He'd seen other face painters before but this one was in a league of his own and when he looked at the artist he felt a shock of recognition - he'd seen the man before: he was the one who'd been at the opening, the one he'd fantasized about for a brief moment as they'd discussed a variety of subjects.

He must have stood there for an hour or more as the man worked, his attention more on the artist than the art, impressed by the man's concentration. It was as if he forgot everything except his subject, whether it was a sketch or painting.

"What do you think?"

Peter was pulled from his thoughts by the question to find the man regarding him with a smile touching his mouth. "Impressive," he said honestly.

"But..."

"I'm wondering why you haven't tried for...bigger," Peter said.

The man shrugged. "Maybe I have," he said. "Maybe it wasn't for me."

Peter regarded him for a moment, something telling him there was more that wasn't being said but set it aside in favor of a question he'd wanted to ask since he'd recognized the man. "No offense but how does a street artist score an invite to a gallery opening?"

"You're referring to the Neal Caffrey showing a few months ago. To answer your question, I know the artist."

"Really?"

"His whole life."

"So what can you tell me about him?" Peter asked, sitting down beside him.

Neal stifled a smile as he answered. "I _could_ tell you plenty," he said. "But _will_ I is another question entirely." Neal regarded Peter in his own turn. "You're a fan of his work?"

"I have a few pieces," Peter said.

"Which ones?"

"The Millenium Wheel, some kids on a playground and a couple at a cafe," Peter said. He raised a brow when he saw Neal shake his head. "What?"

"That last isn't a Caffrey," Neal said. "He never went for ordinary or cliche."

"How do you know?"

"I know him, remember?" Neal said. "The Millenium Wheel is almost edge on, isn't it? The playground shows a dark haired woman off to the right but the focus is on the child on the swing. But let me guess, the couple at the cafe could have been on any postcard at any souvenir shop in Paris."

"You've seen it?" Peter asked.

"No, but I don't have to," Neal said. "You were either allowed to assume it was his work or you were lied to. When did you get it?"

"A few years ago, when I was in Paris," Peter said.

"Can you be more specific?"

"Two years," Peter said and wondered why the man's eyes darkened a little...in grief?

"He wouldn't have painted anything like that at the time. Not so soon after losing Kate."

"Kate?"

"His wife. Stabbed by a mugger. Died right after he got to the hospital."

"You were close?"

"Yeah, we were." Neal said. He shook himself, becoming aware of the heat of the other man's body. "So, you'll be going to the showing in a few weeks?" he asked, shifting a little further away.

"Will you?"

"I suppose I can clear a space on my schedule," Neal said.

"Any hints you can give me about what he'll have?"

Neal debated for a few moments. Normally, he liked to keep what pieces he was showing a secret until the event itself but..."I suppose I could give you a head's up," he said.

"Caffrey wouldn't mind? I get the feeling he enjoys the secrecy and mystery," Peter said.

Neal shrugged. "It works," he said. "But I don't think he'd mind this once." He thought a moment then said, "There's one of the Grand Canyon but not from the rim, not from the Skywalk, from the bottom, that Indian village there."

"Anything else?"

"You'll have to wait and see," Neal said and grinned when Peter rolled his eyes. "Don't be greedy. You're the only one who's ever gotten advance notice." He began packing his case, slipping the bills into his wallet before closing it. "I'm starved," he said. "Care to join me for some street vendor cuisine? I know this guy who has the best hot dogs in the city."

"If you let me buy," Peter said. "A thank you for the advance notice."

"All right," Neal said. "As long as you let me buy the next time."

"You want a next time?" Peter asked as they made their way out of the park.

"Do you?"

"I wouldn't mind it," Peter said.

"I think it can be arranged," Neal said as he led the other man to a street cart just outside the park. "Two with everything, Leo," he said.

"No onions on one," Peter said.

Leo nodded as he filled their orders. "So, you did well today, my friend?" he asked, handing Neal his hot dog.

"About the same as always," Neal said. "Did I tell you about the little girl from the other day?"

"I haven't seen you in a few days," Leo said. "So no, you haven't."

"Special needs," Neal said. "Down's. Smoothest skin I'd ever seen. Anyway, she wanted a butterfly so I gave her one for the books. Covered half her face."

Leo's eyes widened a little as he gave Peter his. "Wait, that was yours?" he asked.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Her name's Cassidy, right? She's my neighbor's little girl," Leo said.

"Wow. Small world."

"Yeah, her mom said she kept looking the the mirror all day," Leo said. "Smiling to beat the band."

"I was thinking of putting her on canvas," Neal said.

"Display or sale?" Leo asked.

"Gift, now that I know I can get it to her," Neal said.

"She'd like that," Leo said. "So, you going to the opening? I heard some scuttlebutt that some bigwigs are gonna show."

"Excuse me," Peter said. "What opening?"

"Of his work," Leo said, tilting his head toward Neal. "Neal Caffrey."

Peter raised a brow, the question obvious and Neal looked amused. " _You're_ Neal Caffrey?"

"Guilty as charged," Neal said. He popped the last of his hot dog into his mouth, watching as Peter absorbed the information. 

His first question came as no surprise. "Why don't you want your face out there?"

"It was Kate's idea that I attend incognito at my first showing in Paris," Neal said. "It ramped up interest in my work. At first, I thought that was the only reason it did so well but after, I listened to the opinions and realized they liked my work, that it wasn't just because they had no idea what I looked like. My work stood on its own. But I liked the mystery aspect so I kept doing it...and this way I can avoid the pitfalls of celebrity...thanks Leo."

"I hope I didn't..."

Neal waved the apology off. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Besides, I think Peter here can keep a secret." He raised a challenging brow at the other man.

"Not a word," Peter said. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a few bills.

"No charge," Leo said. "A couple dogs won't hurt."

Peter nodded his thanks, replacing the money as he and Neal continued down the street. "So, any more secrets you want to tell me?" he asked.

"What do you want to know?" Neal asked.

"Kate. She was your wife?"

Neal was silent for a moment. "And my best friend," he said softly. "We'd only been married about a year when she was killed. I was lucky enough to be able to tell her I loved her and to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry," Peter said.

Neal took a deep breath. "It's been two years," he said. "I've gotten over the worst of it. My art helped."

"Therapy?"

"Better than any shrink and not nearly as expensive," Neal said, a smile quirking his lips. "I stayed in Paris for a while then moved through most of Europe - England, Italy, spent a week or so in Greece, even Copenhagen for a couple days." He shrugged. "Wanted to see the statue of The Little Mermaid before it was vandalized again."

"And how long have you been in New York?"

"Six months," Neal said. "Scored a nice apartment with a view of the Park."

"My apartment has that view," Peter said. He paused a moment. "Would you like to join me for a drink?" he asked. "My place isn't that far."

"Sure," Neal said. When they came to Peter's building he hid his surprise but asked, "You live _here_?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Why? Not what you expected?"

"I can definitely say I didn't expect it," Neal said. He had to chuckle when Peter pushed the button for his floor. At Peter's questioning look he said, "One more secret. I live in this building too...on this floor."

Peter quickly put the pieces together. "You're my neighbor," he said. "How did I not know that?"

Neal shrugged. "I didn't know either," he said. "Guess we just kept missing each other."

"I guess that explains the occasional whiff of oil paint I got," Peter said as he opened his door. "Have a seat."

Instead of taking a seat, Neal looked around, spotting the painting of the playground. "I remember when I did this one," he said, stepping over to it. "It wasn't too long after Kate and I moved to Paris." He accepted the drink with a nod. "We'd spend hours just wandering around the city - sometimes getting hopelessly lost - stopping so I could sketch something that caught our eye. She used to kid me that my sketchbook was permanently attached." He smiled a little wryly. "Half the time she was right, I think."

"Have you ever drawn her?" Peter asked.

"She never let me," Neal said. "And after... Well, I really couldn't. Maybe some day." He nodded at the painting. "So, what do you think? Why this one?"

"Reminded me of growing up upstate," Peter said. "I used to go to a playground a lot like that. But mostly it was the kids, something...carefree about them."

"The innocence of youth," Neal said. "Before life and the world takes it away."

Peter stood beside him and Neal became acutely aware of his presence, the heat of his body, the scent that was Peter Burke's own. He was also very aware of Peter's eyes on him and could almost hear him thinking.

"If you're wondering, I do," he said softly.

"You do what?" Peter asked just as softly as if afraid of breaking the spell they seemed to be caught in.

In answer, Neal turned toward him, sliding a hand around his neck and brought their mouths together in a kiss that wasn't quite chaste. It only lasted a few seconds before Neal pulled back. "Wow," he breathed.

"Yeah." Peter cleared his throat. "Normally, I'd take you to bed and have my way with you but that's not what I want this time."

"How about tomorrow?" Neal asked. "Dinner. My place. Then we'll see, okay?"

"Sounds nice," Peter said.

"Preference?"

"Surprise me." He took a breath and stepped back. "So, if I can ask, did your wife know?"

"She knew," Neal said. "It didn't bother her as much as it would another woman. She accepted that it was part of who I am. I never stepped out on her though. I promised her I wouldn't and I kept that promise."

"She sounds like a very special woman," Peter commented.

"She wasn't perfect by any means but yeah, she was special," Neal said. "And I know she'd want me to find someone, man or woman."

He took his leave shortly after, aware that Peter's eyes were on him as he walked down the hall to his own door. Once inside he found he could breathe easier but he still felt Peter's mouth on his and he was slightly startled to find he was aroused. Again, he imagined Peter spread out, naked on his bed as he explored what he was sure was a toned, fit body and his cock twitched in response. To get his mind off Peter, he went into his bedroom to change into a ratty pair of jeans and a T-shirt covered in splotches of color then went into the spare room he used as a studio. Selecting a small canvas, he set it on the easel, loaded his palette and picked up a brush.

A few hours later, he stood back and studied his work. On the canvas was a portrait of Cassidy, the girl with Down's, complete with the butterfly he'd adorned her face with the day before. He'd downplayed the roundness of her face - roundness that seemed to be typical of those with the syndrome - but accentuated the liquid brown of her eyes, framed by the wings of the butterfly. After touching it up in a few places, he set it aside to dry - he'd ask Leo to deliver it the next time he saw him. He contemplated another canvas, wondering if he could finally bring himself to paint his late wife but decided he needed to wait a while longer, even though he was past the worst of his grief.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that, yet again, he'd forgotten to eat - Kate used to have to remind him when he got caught up in his art. He set his palette aside, cleaned his brush and went into the kitchen to fix a light supper, his mind now on what to make for Peter the next evening. Surprise him, he'd said. By the time he washed his few dishes, he'd decided on authentic Italian lasagne and homemade garlic bread paired with a nice Cabernet.

He stripped on his way to the bathroom to shower, his thoughts not on dinner but what he hoped would come after. He tossed a pair of sleep pants on the bed as he passed, headed to the bathroom where he unashamedly stroked himself to completion, imagining it was Peter's hand on him as the hot water cascaded down.

Down the hall, Peter was similarly occupied as he imagined sinking into Neal's tight heat, sucking him off until he exploded in orgasm, imagining how he tasted. If things went as he hoped, he'd have the other man for dessert. He shut off the shower, dried himself then padded naked into the bedroom, his thoughts still on Neal.

 

The apartment smelled of marinara, oregano and garlic when Neal heard the knock on the door. He opened it to find Peter looking downright appetizing in a pair of khakis and a dark blue buttondown open at the collar. "Smells delicious," Peter said as Neal stood aside to let him in.

"We have about fifteen minutes yet," Neal said. "Wine?"

"Please."

"Have a seat," Neal said as he fetched the bottle and a pair of glasses.

Peter settled on the couch and accepted the glass Neal handed him, his fingers covering his for a brief moment and he saw Neal's eyes darken. "Too bad we don't have more time," he said.

"Well, if things go as I hope, we'll need our strength," Neal said, sipping his wine. Before Peter could respond, he cupped the back of his head and drew him forward until their lips met in a slow kiss, slipping his tongue into Peter's mouth. When he drew back, the were both a bit breathless - and hard.

 

Somehow they made it through dinner, Peter asking about Neal's travels, finding they'd been to many of the same places, a few even at the same time and Neal confessed to trying to sneak into the Colliseum with Kate but they'd been stopped by the local carabinieri before they could. He also told of spending hours in the Louvre, just staring at the Mona Lisa, wondering - like the rest of the world - just what was behind that famous smile. But all the while they both felt the heat, the attraction, the tension they both knew would be assuaged.

Almost before the remains of the meal were put away. Neal was dragging Peter back toward the bedroom as they relieved each other of their clothes. Neal's breath caught when he finally saw the well defined chest and trim abs as they tapered to his waist. "You have to let me paint you some day," he half whispered, running his hands almost reverently over the smooth skin of Peter's chest. One trailed down to grasp his impressive cock and stroked it to full hardness, causing Peter's breath to hitch. Neal nudged him back until he lay on the bed then straddled him. Starting with Peter's mouth, he began to thoroughly explore the other man's body until he reached his cock. He licked a stripe from balls to tip, barely hearing Peter's breath become ragged as he swallowed him down.

"Jesus...Neal..."

It had been a while since he'd had a male lover - since before Kate - but Neal had lost none of his skill at pleasuring a man and soon Peter was thrusting into his mouth. He went with it, tasting the first drops of precome and felt his own cock throb. Just as Peter was on the verge, he pulled off, crawling up over him to reach into the bedside table drawer for lube and a condom. "Are you clean?" he asked breathlessly. At Peter's nod, he discarded the condom. "I want to ride you."

Peter took the bottle of lube and popped the cap. "Let me," he said, his voice rough. He pulled Neal further up and wrapped his lips around Neal's cock as his slick fingers found his entrance, working in one, then two then three.

Neal nearly stopped breathing from the twin sensations of Peter's mouth on him and his fingers inside him. Reluctantly he tore himself away and positioned himself over Peter, guiding the other man into him, practically impaling himself. He had to pause a moment to let them adjust but soon he was gliding up and down the length of Peter's cock. He nearly came when Peter began stroking him, holding on by the thinnest of threads. But he was lost when Peter sat up and claimed his mouth. Peter followed seconds later and Neal groaned as he felt the warmth of Peter's come fill him.

"Sorry, I usually last longer," Neal said. "It's just..."

"I know," Peter said. "So did you."

Neal disengaged and curled up next to him, head on Peter's chest, his fingers tracing abstract patterns.

Peter nudged him gently. "Were you serious?" he asked.

"About what?"

"Painting me."

Neal propped himself up on one arm. "I'm always serious when it comes to my art," he said. He looked at the other man with an artist's eye, running though ideas of how to pose him and where. Within minutes he had half a dozen ideas but he put them aside in favor of looking at him as a man and new lover and lay back down next to him, his eyes drifting closed. 

He was awakened by the very pleasant sensation of Peter's mouth on him and he found his hands fisted loosely in Peter's hair, his hips twitching slightly when Peter's tongue swept over the head of his cock. "Hey," he said, his voice rough with sleep and arousal.

"Hope you don't mind," Peter said with a last lick up his length.

"Mmmm," Neal said, closing his eyes. A smile touched his mouth. "I could get used to it," he said.

Peter slid up and took his mouth in a slow, sensual kiss, slowly stroking his cock. "Has anyone ever told you how good you taste?" he whispered in his ear before moving to mouth his neck.

Neal pulled Peter over him, wrapping his legs around his waist. "I'm still ready," he murmured in his ear before giving it a light nip. He back arched and his breath caught as he felt Peter slowly fill him then start thrusting at a leisurely pace. It lasted longer than their first, almost frantic coupling, hands roaming over sweat damp skin, mouths tasting every spot within reach until their climaxes rolled over them. With a slightly impish smile, Peter licked him clean. "Delicious," he murmured before giving him a long, slow kiss. He drew back, running a finger over Neal's lips. looking almost contemplative.

"What?" Neal asked.

"I knew you'd be different," Peter said. "At your last showing...you were the only one who didn't look like you wanted to jump me."

"I may not have looked like it but I wanted to," Neal said.

Peter rolled on top of him. "You're also the only one who made sure I enjoyed myself," he said.

"I'm a firm believer that sex should be enjoyed by both partners. Otherwise, it's no fun," Neal said. His mouth quirked a little and he asked a bit teasingly, "So, you enjoyed yourself?"

Peter's mouth quirked in response. "Give me a bit longer and I'll show you how much," he said.

Neal frowned a little in concentration, running his hands and fingers over Peter's face. At Peter's unspoken question, he said, "I'm not sure if I should paint you or sculpt you."

"You sculpt?"

"Sometimes," Neal said. "But it's been a while. Haven't had a good subject." He let out a breath. "Well, I can decide later."

 

"Later" was well after the showing. He'd decided to attend, seeing a number of wealthy and well known people there, amused at some of the interpretations made of his work. One woman seemed quite sure that his painting of the Grand Canyon was a metaphor for being in a deep depression with the mail carrier and the burros symbolic of the way out.

"Actually, I was just amazed that they made the trip down almost every day and quite ingenious in using pack animals. It's almost Old West in a way," Neal said to Peter in a low voice. "And the Canyon itself is just amazing, almost intimidating."

"And the view of Paris?" Peter asked.

"Something Kate said not long after we moved there," Neal said. "If the tower weren't just a construct, if it was alive, what would it see?"

Peter regarded the other from Paris. "Not the Statue of Liberty," he said. "Background's wrong."

"The French have a smaller version," Neal said. "It looks west from the banks of the Seine while ours looks east. It's not as much of a tourist attraction as the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre..."

"Which is one reason you chose to paint it," Peter said. "Am I right?"

Neal just smiled in answer, watching as the attendees filled out the forms provided, indicating which painting(s)/sketch(es) they wished to purchase, how much they offered along with their contact information. He'd been smart enough not to set a minimum price, knowing no one would pay more if they didn't have to. He knew what his work was worth and wouldn't consider any offer that was substantially below that. The forms would be mailed to him by the gallery manager - one of the few people who knew his address - and he'd release the work once he got confirmation of payment. He wondered if Peter put in a bid and if so, on which one. He'd lost sight of him for a while as he discussed his Grand Canyon painting with another attendee.

It was late when the last person left and Peter suggested they get a bite to eat, having a standing reservation at one of the more upscale restaurants. They were seated immediately and a server appeared within seconds to take their orders. When Neal looked at him somewhat amused, Peter shrugged a little and said, "If you didn't insist on keeping the mystery, I'm sure you could get the same treatment."

"That's not it," Neal said. "From her reaction I gather I'm just the latest in a long line of people you've brought here." He regarded the other man for a moment. "Like I was just a one-off like the others." He shrugged. "It's okay if I am," he said. "I have no expectations."

"If you were just a one-off, we wouldn't have had round two," Peter said. "Or any time after that."

Neal smile a little, remembering the many nights they'd pleasured each other to exhaustion, fallen asleep only to wake up for another round. "So...after...?"

"What do you think?" Peter asked, looking him over appreciatively and with more than a little lust.

Neal immediately felt himself respond and said in a low, rough voice, "If you don't dial that back a little, we might find ourselves getting arrested for public indecency because I _will_ go down on you right here, right now."

"It'd be worth it," Peter said.

Fortunately, the server came with their orders and both men were able to get themselves under control, both knowing how the night would end.

It did.

 

SIX MONTHS LATER

 

Neal stood back from the canvas, looking at his work critically. The painting was split between two subjects - a man and a woman - in identical poses and identical state of undress. The left portrayed Kate, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders, partially obscuring one bright blue eye, a drape covering her breasts and hips as she leaned against the arm of a couch, feet tucked up behind her. The other showed Peter in the same pose with cloth draped over his hips. He drew a deep breath, feeling the warmth of a familiar body press against his back as arms slid around his waist. He set palette and brush down and turned in the embrace to plant a light kiss on Peter's lips.

"Kate?" Peter asked with a slight nod at the painting.

"Yeah," Neal said. "She'd have hated it."

"Why? It's gorgeous," Peter said.

"She never wanted me to sketch or paint her," Neal said. "Said I could find subjects that were a lot more interesting."

"I assume this isn't for sale or display," Peter said.

Neal looked back over his shoulder. "No, this was for me," he said. "The two loves of my life." He felt Peter go still at his words and turned to give him a soft smile. "Yeah, I said it. I love you Peter Burke." He took Peter's mouth in a slow, sensuous kiss. "Let me show you how much," he whispered in Peter's ear.

"My turn to show you, " Peter responded, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

And if someone walking down the hall heard moans of ecstasy, neither cared.


End file.
